


All There Is

by Lilith (Citrine)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:07:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citrine/pseuds/Lilith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You see your best friend leap to his death, still grieving you move away and try to build a new life for yourself. You marry and then;-</p>
<p>Sherlock was standing by the garage doors, under the wet sweep of the willow. A silhouette in black. </p>
<p>John’s hands clenched on the steering wheel. He thought that he might have a heart attack. Not figuratively.  Literally. </p>
<p>That moment passed, fury burnt through his veins.  He slammed the car door. "Piss off. I don’t want you here."</p>
<p>But he couldn’t let him go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All There Is

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Emily Dickinson's lovely poem 'That Love is all there is,'
> 
> Many thanks to VW for proofreading.
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own, no copyright infringement intended, strictly not for profit.

John’s woken as he is every morning by the clock radio, country and western, Mary’s favourite. He reaches out groggily and slams down the off button. Blessed silence descends. He luxuriates in it for a moment. 06:30. He hears the rev of an engine outside and the rattle of milk crates. Few places have a milk delivery now, but the leafy middle-class crescent manages it.

Nothing’s changed. The world has not blown itself apart.

Sherlock.

John looks to his left. The dark crown of Sherlock’s head is just visible. He has his back to John and the rest of him is hidden under Mary’s favourite blue and white duvet.

How the hell did they end up like this?

John smiles ruefully. Were they ever going to end up any other way?

They were supposed to have ended twenty-three months ago. You died. We buried you. End of. 

John left Baker Street. He had made a new life for himself, a job at a suburban surgery, a mortgage and Mary. She would have been happy for them to live together. John had wanted the stability of marriage. Mary’s parents had insisted on a church wedding, complete with a choir and a white Rolls Royce.  She had been radiant as all brides were supposed to be. The most beautiful girl in the world.

They had been married for five months. Mary was away, visiting her family. No accident. No coincidence. Sherlock had known that she wouldn’t be here.

It had been a long, hard day at the surgery. All John wanted when he pulled into the driveway was to vegetate  in front of some crap telly with a Chinese takeaway.

Sherlock was standing by the garage doors, under the wet sweep of the willow. A silhouette in black.

John’s hands clenched on the steering wheel. He thought that he might have a heart attack. Not figuratively. Literally.

That moment passed, fury burnt through his veins.  He slammed the car door. "Piss off. I don’t want you here."

But he couldn’t let him go.

Later it had been John who had ignited the spark.

John turns his face towards the glimmer of daylight coming in through the curtains. Don’t think about it. Don’t think how good it was. How right. How natural.

Normality resumes here. He has to be at work in less than two hours.

There’s a bug going round and the surgery will be packed out again today. One doctor’s on holiday and the locum’s young and inexperienced. John has appointments coming out of his ears and a terminal diagnosis to break gently. He calls in sick at eight-fifteen. Norovirus.  No, he can’t come in later. He’ll only give it to everyone else.

John puts the phone down. Guilt evaporates and is replaced by a sense of euphoria. He has stolen another day for them. John looks across the kitchen at Sherlock. He knows that he’s grinning like an idiot. “Breakfast?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not for me thanks, I’ve never seen the attraction of food so early in the day.”

“Well, I’m hungry.” John heads for the fridge, stopping on the way to plant a casual kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

It’s all too easy.

It gets more difficult when explanations turn into arguments and bitter recriminations. 

They make it up by lunchtime and sprawl on the sofa with their feet on the coffee table, eating crackers and Heinz tomato soup.

“We used to have this when I was a kid,” says John.

“Mummy didn’t approve of tinned soup.”

John chuckles. “Snob.”

They fall into bed again in the afternoon. The voyage of discovery continues and the journey is exhilarating. They are still in bed, lazily content, when the phone rings.  Mary will be home in an hour.  There’s no need for John to meet her at the station. She’ll get a taxi.

Guilt and unreasonable resentment mingle in John.  They dress in virtual silence.  Sherlock doesn’t have a jacket and by the time he’s ready to leave there’s a storm raging. John gives him the black umbrella that Mary’s father left behind the last time he came to visit.  Mary forgot to take it with her yesterday.

They part with an almost chaste kiss.

John sets about hiding the evidence. He loads the dishwasher and even buries the soup tins at the bottom of the recycling bin. Then he hurries upstairs to strip and remake the bed with clean sheets.  John’s just knotting his tie when Mary’s taxi draws up outside.

She has roses from her parents’ garden, steak and strawberries from the farm shop, and a special smile just for him.  Sweet, pretty Mary. John hasn’t stopped loving her.  His web of lies is intended to protect her from a truth that would shatter her world.  He tells her that he had a good day at work and then he has to elaborate on the falsehood. Two days later Mary’s hunting for the missing umbrella and John swears that he hasn’t seen it, that he doesn’t have a clue where it is.

It’s amazing how quickly one lie leads to another.

*

The resurrection of Sherlock Holmes makes front page news four days later. There are stories of secret missions, mentions of Tibet and the Taliban. John knows that the press reports are all Mycroft’s handiwork and that there isn’t a word of truth in any of them.

Mary is angry on John’s behalf.  She can’t believe that Sherlock would let him think that he was dead for nearly two years. It was a cruel, unforgivable deception.  John listens to her tirade of temper. He is torn between impatience and pride.  He knows that she means well, that she’s on his side, but it’s difficult to maintain the fiction of resentment and disillusion.

Outwardly John’s life continues as much before and he tries to be the good husband that Mary deserves. She can still make him laugh. He still thinks that she’s cute and sexy, but he’s tasted forbidden fruit and everything else pales in comparison.  

A medical conference. A night in London. John registers and stays until the end of the introductory seminar. Sherlock’s waiting for him on the corner of Russell Square. They go to a restaurant for lunch, a little Indian place off Brick Lane where they can be anonymous.  Sherlock’s taking cases again. He tells John about the latest one and John yearns for excitement and danger. His own life is humdrum and dull.  The routine he was once grateful for is now stifling.

“Come and see the crime scene,” says Sherlock.

“Is this your idea of a date?” asks John cheerfully when they’re grubbing around in an abandoned building festooned with ‘keep out dangerous structure’ notices.

After that they stroll aimlessly through Soho talking of everything and nothing. Eventually they succumb to the lure of Angelo’s, where Sherlock is forgiven for being dead and John for being married, and a candle is lit in their honour.   

By eight-thirty they’re hanging the ‘do not disturb’ sign on John’s hotel room door.  It’s a resurrection of another kind. An affirmation after nearly two months apart.

“Stay,” says Sherlock in the early hours of the morning. “Come home with me.”

“I can’t.”

“You mean that you won’t.” Sherlock rolls over in bed, away from the intimacy of their embrace. “You can do as you choose.”

John sighs heavily. “I wish to god that I could, but I’m a married man and I’ve got responsibilities.”

“How very dull.”

“Don’t take the mickey.” John slaps him lightly on the forearm. “You can’t just expect me to give up everything at the drop of a hat.”

“And what would you be giving up exactly?  A house that you’ll spend the rest of your life paying for, a job that bores you to tears, even if it does pay the mortgage, and a wife whom you don’t love.”

“I do love her,” declares John automatically.

Sherlock props himself on one elbow, so that he’s looking down into John’s face, illuminated in the not-quite-dark neon flicker of central London. “No, you don’t, you love me.”  Sherlock flops back down onto the pillows. “You know that I’m right.”

John denies it. He doesn’t even dare think about the implications of being in love with Sherlock.  On the way back, lulled by the racing rock of the train John drifts, dreams and ponders.  Mary was the bright star in a dark heaven. She was there for him when everything was bleak and broken.  John remembers their wedding day, their wedding night and how they were going to live happily ever after.

Mary throws herself into his arms. “Welcome home, darling.”

John hugs her and sees his own unhappy face reflected in the mirror. He’s back to duty and responsibility. He’s done the right thing, but this isn’t his home. Home was a fifteen minute taxi ride away from the hotel; the shabby chaos of Baker Street, experiments, violins and bullet holes in the living room wall. Sherlock.

Mary’s prepared his favourite meal. She opens a bottle of red wine to go with the cannelloni. Her best perfume, the one she wore at their wedding wafts across the table. John flounders telling her about the conference and the formal dinner he had completely forgotten he was supposed to attend.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m fine.” He makes a bit more of an effort and comes up with a story that sounds halfway coherent.

They finish the wine and desert. John knows that this is a prelude to a seduction He yawns. “God, I’m tired.”

It’s true. They made love for most of the night and talked for nearly all of the rest of it. Of course he can’t tell Mary that, no more than he can tell that he doesn’t want to sleep with her anymore.

*

Sherlock forgives him for not returning to Baker Street.  John phones him almost every day. Secretly, from the surgery or the car park, as if they were having an affair. It’s not like that, not exactly. He hasn’t seen Sherlock for over five weeks and when they talk it’s about John’s work or Sherlock’s cases. They don’t whisper sweet nothings down the phone and John’s marriage is never mentioned.

John’s been married for eight months. Mary’s planning their first Christmas together.

John tries to invent a reason to return to London, even if only for a night. He can’t think of an excuse that will hold water. In the end he takes the afternoon off and goes up to spend a few hours with Sherlock in a hotel room. This time Sherlock doesn’t ask him to stay. John tells himself that he is relieved rather than disappointed, but he’s in a foul temper by the time he gets back.

An argument flares up over trivia. When Mary demands to know where he’s been and why he didn’t answer his phone John storms off upstairs. There are seven missed calls on his mobile, five from Mary and two from the surgery. Why the bloody hell can’t they leave him in peace?

John attempts to put things back on an even keel. He buys flowers and takes Mary out to dinner on Saturday night. She flirts with him and he responds, going through the motions.  He makes love to her for the first time in a month and stays awake afterwards telling himself that he isn’t even thinking about leaving her.

*

Not at Christmas. He can’t leave her at Christmas.

John’s standing in her parent’s kitchen on Christmas morning, just him and the turkey.  He’s sending a text.

_Merry Christmas_. John hesitates for a moment and then he types a few more words. _You were right. JW._

He hangs around in the kitchen, flicking the switch on the kettle as an excuse. Luckily he only has to wait a couple of minutes before his mobile bleeps.

_I always am. SH._

John laughs. Sherlock Holmes, winner of the arrogant sod of the year award. He’s just about to put the mobile in his pocket when it bleeps again.

_As it’s the season for sentiment, I love you too. SH._

John’s still smiling at the screen when Mary comes looking for him.  

Mary gestures at the phone. “What are you grinning at?” she asks too casually.

“Nothing.” John switches his mobile off.  He can’t be bothered to construct a lie.

For a moment Mary looks wounded, as if he’s slapped her, but the pang of guilt John feels is swiftly followed by irritation.

“Mum and Dad are waiting to open the presents,” says Mary stiffly.

“Okay.”

John follows her into the lounge. Everyone has made an effort and he makes all the right noises over jumpers, cufflinks and book tokens. The presents don’t really interest him though. John already has what he wanted for Christmas. He sits back on the sofa and wonders what Sherlock’s doing. John knows that he isn’t seeing Mycroft. They don’t do Christmas, but John doubts that Sherlock will escape Mrs Hudson’s turkey dinner. Not without being very rude to her anyway, which he won’t be because Sherlock thinks a lot of their landlady.  John would bet a tenner on Mrs Hudson getting a paper hat on Sherlock’s head, even if only for five minutes. He wishes that he could be there to see it, preferably with a camera.

Mary’s mum passes the mince pies around. It’s well known that she makes the best mince pies ever. John knows that Mrs Hudson’s are better. They taste of home.

*

John knows that he can’t say Happy New Year on the thirty-first of December and pack his bags on the second of January. He may be a bastard, but he’s not that much of a bastard. Thankfully there’s a hiatus between Christmas and New Year, one where Mary hits the sales for a bit of retail therapy and he goes back to work.  Lots of business stay closed throughout the holiday, but people still get sick.

After he finishes his last surgery at lunchtime on the twenty-ninth December John hands in his resignation. Officially he’s supposed to work three months notice and in theory he could commute from Baker Street, it’s only an hour each way on the train, but he knows that it isn’t going to happen.

When he shuts the surgery door for the final time his sense of relief is muted by the knowledge that now he has to go and break Mary’s heart.

They sit in the living room with the white snowflake lights glittering on the Christmas tree.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” John begins and Mary goes pale.

“You’re seeing another woman, aren’t you?” she says.

“No,” John replies as gently as he can. “Not a woman.”  

Mary takes it badly, which doesn’t surprise him, but he hates to see her cry like that, desolate and inconsolable.

He has told her everything, spared her nothing.

John is almost glad when her tears turn to fury. It is easier to bear the brunt of her anger than to deal with the devastation he has caused.  Mary demands to know how he could do this to her and in their bed for god’s sake!  They end up raging at one another; bitter words and cruel accusations are hurled back and forth. Mary screams the inevitable question at him. Why the hell did he ever marry her in the first place if he’s really gay?

John knows that it’s useless to deny it. Neither Mary nor anyone else will believe him if he insists that he isn’t, that he never was. It’s a label that he’s going to have to get used to and John realises that it isn’t nearly as significant as he once thought it to be.  He does tell her that all this is new, that he and Sherlock were never lovers before Sherlock’s fake suicide. She calls him a bloody liar.

John brings Mary the phone and tells her to call her mother. Then he goes to pack. It doesn’t take long. There isn’t much that he wants to take with him.

*

“John!” Mrs Hudson hugs him in the hallway of 221B. It takes her a moment to register the suitcase and the rucksack. “Are you staying?”

“Didn’t Sherlock tell you?”

“No, never a word.”

John gestures at the stairs. “Is he in?”

“He went out about an hour ago. That inspector phoned, something about a horrible murder in Hackney, you know how that’s right up Sherlock’s street.”

“Yes, I know.” John doesn’t mind that Sherlock isn’t there to greet him. It’s just part of the way they are. “He didn’t know exactly when I was arriving anyway, only that it would be sometime today.”

“I wondered what he was so happy about this morning,” says Mrs Hudson.

“Was he?” John’s touched by that. He winces to recall Mary’s ashen tears, but at least he’s made Sherlock happy.

“Oh, yes, dear, positively beaming, even before the murder.”

John trundles his case upstairs. Mrs Hudson follows him. Her curiosity’s killing her.

The old place hasn’t changed that much in two and a half years. There are some new cushions, a crack across the mirror and a large burn on the rug. Otherwise it’s just as John remembered it. He pats the back of his old armchair and wonders if they lock people up for saying hello to furniture.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” says Mrs Hudson. “I’m sure you must be dying for a cuppa. You can get the milk though, I’m sure that there’s something unspeakable in the fridge.” She comes back into the living room. “There’s some clean bedding in the airing cupboard. You can make your own bed up. I’m not your housekeeper, you know,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.

This is it, truth time. “I don’t need the sheets for upstairs.  I’m going to share Sherlock’s bedroom.”

Understanding dawns. “And about time too.” Mrs Hudson gives him a peck on the cheek. “I’m glad for both of you, but what about your poor wife?”

“It’s a bloody mess,” John admits, “but it’s my mess and I’ll sort it out.” Somehow. Eventually.

“I’m sure you will, dear.”

Mrs Hudson goes to make the tea. John’s phone bleeps. Other people get hearts and flowers. He gets a photo of a dismembered corpse.

_Come and see. SH._

John grins. Who said that romance was dead?

*

John wakes to a dark winter morning. The streetlights are still spilling in through the open curtains and the day is only just beginning to shade from sludgy black to dull grey. This time yesterday he was waking up beside Mary, but that already seems a lifetime away.

John rolls over and folds his arm behind his head. Contrary to popular opinion he never slept in this room before last night, not that they did a great deal of sleeping. 

“Are you awake?” asks John softly.

“You’re thinking loudly enough to wake the dead.” Sherlock uncurls his long limbs and turns onto his back. He settles into a mirror image of John’s pose.

“This time last year I thought that you were dead.”

“I know.”

Sherlock doesn’t apologise. They been over all this before and John knows that if their positions had been reversed he would have done the same thing to protect Sherlock.  Yet the might-have-beens still haunt him.

“It was a stupid stunt,” says John. “If it had gone wrong…”

“It was a risk I was willing to take.” Sherlock reaches out and clasps John’s hand.

John squeezes his fingers. “Okay.” There really isn’t anything else to be said about it.  “I’m going to have to get a divorce next year,” says John after a few moments. He suspects that it will get messy, that they will have to run the gauntlet of the tabloid press and that he won’t come out of this with much credit.

“Love rat,” says Sherlock, picking up on his thought process as he so often does.

“Gay love rat.”

“Only because it’s politically incorrect to put ‘queer’ in a headline.”

John rolls over so that he’s looking down into Sherlock’s face. “I don’t much care what they call me.” He lowers his head and kisses Sherlock’s lips. “I love you.”

Sherlock smirks. “Of course you do.”

“Belt up.” John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

The café next door is opening up for the day, chairs scrape on the pavement and the smell of bacon makes John’s stomach rumble, but it’s still mid-morning before they get out of bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
